Paper Gods

by Goldie Taylor

  Outside of practice, Dickey didn’t spend much time around school that Victoria could recall, but he somehow still managed to make the honor roll. He’d show up on test day, ace the exam, and leave before the last lunch bell rang. When he did show up for a full day, they sat next to each other in AP American History. Victoria was dazzled by the way he spat out answers before Mr. Demby could finish a question. Even then, everybody knew Dickey sold weed, though he never did anything in front of Victoria. He used to call her “Big Time.”

  “You’re going places, Big Time,” he told her a few months before graduation. “You don’t need me holding you back.”

  Victoria was heartbroken when Dickey showed up with Ericka Borders to the junior-senior prom. She had gone alone, dropped off and picked up by her father, while Dickey and Ericka came in a stretch limousine after a fancy dinner at Mr. Hsu’s downtown. Wearing a floor-length, shimmering sequin gown, Victoria beat back tears as she and Dickey walked the aisle together and were crowned Prom King and Queen.

  “Don’t cry, Big Time,” he told her as they danced to Keith Sweat’s “Make It Last Forever” under the crepe paper streamers and rotating disco ball. “I’m with Ericka tonight, but I’ll always be with you.”

  That fall, during her freshman year at Spelman College, Dickey popped up on campus in a two-door, drop-top, white-on-white Mercedes-Benz. She wanted to ask him where he’d gotten the money, but thought better of it. Besides, when she started dating a Morehouse premed student named Marshall Overstreet, Dickey stopped coming around.

  Some years later, there had been a rendezvous in Chicago during the ’98 DNC Convention, when Dickey showed up unannounced at Midway Airport and ferried her to dinner in a gleaming red Maserati. She was a twenty-three-year-old Harvard Law first-year back then, and Dickey, who’d finished three years at Georgia State before dropping out, was running strip clubs in Atlanta. The Gilded Kitty was doing good business, with lines cascading out the door and a VIP check-in reserved for various professional athletes and chart-topping rappers. He was in Chicago, scouting a new location, Dickey explained. He’d opened another in Miami and one in Houston too.

  They spent their first and last sunrise together in a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria on the Magnificent Mile. An outsized bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, a chilling bottle of white gold Dom Pérignon, and two champagne flutes awaited their arrival. Dickey, she noticed, paid the bill with a black American Express Centurion Card. The next morning, they went for a leisurely walk along Lake Michigan and talked about a future together for the first time. Victoria had been taken with his attention to detail, how he’d spared no expense to ensure her every comfort.

  Make it last forever.

  She was in love and had been from the first time she laid eyes on him. There were more dates, more cities, and more than a few promises she knew he could not keep. There were other women, Victoria knew, and making a life with Dickey seemed foolhardy. The breakup happened while they were on vacation in Nevis and came as suddenly as a midsummer island rain. There had been an argument, fueled by questions he refused to answer.

  “I won’t lie to you, Big Time. You gotta stop asking about things you don’t really want to know.”

  Victoria got on the plane alone.

  Soon after that, she rekindled her romance with Marsh. Dickey went ghost again, and it would be another two years before Victoria heard from him. By then, Marsh had proposed. Dickey sent an engagement gift, a beautiful oil painting of the newlyweds that Marsh refused to hang in their house. It was common knowledge, even then, that Dickey was running a drug ring and laundering cash through his nightclubs. He was still known as “Dickey Phoenix” on the street.

  “Richard Lester is the biggest heroin dealer in the Southeast,” Chief Walraven reminded her now. “He’s cutting it with straight fentanyl too, and we’ve got the bodies to show for it.”

  “We had our differences, but Chip wouldn’t agree to testify without telling me about it, and Dickey wouldn’t lay a hand on him.”

  “You’re talking like you still know him. He isn’t the same young man you went to high school with.”

  “Some things are hard to let go,” she admitted. “It’s been more than a few years since I last talked to him.”

  Dickey had meant something to her, at least then, and her to him. That she knew for sure. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Spilling everything for Chief Walraven didn’t seem wise. At least for now, Victoria decided not to mention the origami she’d found in the congressman’s Bible or the one her mother discovered tucked inside Chip’s clothing. The figures were both red, pressed together the same way, and looked like birds.

  A phoenix?

  “Mr. Lester is a dangerous man,” Walraven said.

  She’d long suspected the nightclubs were a front. There was too much money, and too few office hours. Despite her warnings, Victoria also knew that Chip maintained a relationship with him long after her own had ended.

  Mr. Lester is a dangerous man.

  “Mr. Lester hurt a lot of people, and some of them didn’t live to talk about it. One of his foot soldiers was lit up like a Christmas tree last year, coming out of his mama’s house in College Park. He bled out on her front porch. And don’t forget one of his lieutenants was charged in that arson case nine years ago. A woman, her three kids, and a firefighter died in that fire over in the Bluff. The only reason Lester hasn’t been convicted of anything yet is because prosecution witnesses almost never make it to the courthouse.”

  “The woman out on Alexander Boulevard? She was connected to Dickey?”

  “She was a prisoner in her own home. She had key-lock burglar bars on the windows and doors. A squadron of firefighters got in right before the roof collapsed.”

  Situated in the English Avenue–Vine City corridor, the Bluff spans roughly ten square blocks and sits in the shadow of the Georgia Dome. Despite every crackdown and every attempt at urban renewal, the open-air drug market flourished. Sonia Hill, according to news reports at the time, died with her children in 2005. They were huddled up under a mattress.

  “Lester was behind that, we know,” Chief Walraven said. “All because Ms. Hill owed one of his punk-ass dealers seventy-five dollars and couldn’t pay him fifty-cent on the dollar in interest. She was murdered over a hundred twelve dollars and fifty cents. We got the guy who set the fire, but he never put it on Lester. Wouldn’t even speak his name. Six months after the conviction, they found him hanging by a bedsheet down at Jackson State Penitentiary.”

  “You’re saying Dickey had her killed over some pocket change? You can’t even buy a ticket to a Falcons game on money like that.”

  “We couldn’t tie him to it, but, ma’am, that is how Lester does business. No way to make it to the top of that pyramid without spilling a lot of blood. By the time the ATF raided his house in Alpharetta, he was running everything north of Florida and south of Virginia, stretching west all the way to the Mississippi–Louisiana border. They used the RICO Act to confiscate nine cars and four houses, one of which is a mansion down on Sea Island.”

  “And you think he tried to kill Chip?”

  “Whatever your brother knew, it was enough to put twelve ranking members of the Sex Money Murder gang behind bars. The lead indictment against Mr. Lester was sealed until the gang unit could build the cases and get the remaining suspects into custody. Once it went public, the bodies started dropping. Your brother was the last remaining witness.”

  “Then why in the hell wasn’t he in witness protection?”

  “He refused. Two weeks ago, he stopped talking altogether.”

  “Right after our godfather was murdered.”

  “And you think the two are connected?”

  “I don’t know what I think anymore.”

  “The GBI traced a green Camaro that was seen parked close to your brother’s vehicle. Pulled out fifteen minutes before the explosion. The Camaro was reported stolen down in Dublin. Carroll County sheriff’s deputies found it torch
ed over on the west side of Villa Rica early this morning. ATF took a suspect into custody a couple of hours ago. His cell phone records tied him to Rochelle Charles. She lives over off of—”

  “—Camp Creek Parkway,” Victoria said, cutting him off.

  “That’s her. The suspect is her fourteen-year-old son, DeVonte. It’s his second arrest inside of two weeks. Got picked up for shoplifting at Lenox.”

  “She is Dickey’s half sister,” Victoria said almost inaudibly, leaning on the grocery store buggy in the parking lot. “DeVonte is his nephew.”

  Victoria felt the numbness washing over her and she did the math in her head. Dickey’s younger sister, Rochelle, was a year behind them and pregnant before she hit junior year. She had three kids now, and DeVonte was her youngest son. If DeVonte was involved, Victoria thought to herself, then so was Dickey.

  “Chief, are you sure about all of this?”

  “The device was far too complicated for some fifteen-year-old middle school dropout to configure,” Walraven said. “He was probably just a lookout. But, yes, we’re fairly certain Lester was behind this.”

  “Rochelle lives over there with her mother, Miss Gloria, and her stepfather. The bigger Atlanta gets, the smaller it is. Are you going to bring her in?”

  “We brought Rochelle in for questioning this afternoon. Neither she nor her son are talking. Bond hasn’t been set yet, but as I understand it, his grandmother offered up the deed to her house. The feds seized Lester’s assets under RICO when he was indicted, but I’m guessing the lawyer is pro bono since he’s DeVonte’s uncle. Dickey’s older brother Riley Lester damn near beat us to the interrogation room.”

  “Dickey’s very own in-house legal counsel.”

  “I assume he’s simply a placeholder. Right now, it’s only stolen car and arson charges. If your brother dies and they can pull the case together, the state will put him on for first-degree murder. He’s too young to face the death penalty, but twenty-five to life is a big bargaining chip.”

  “To make him talk?”

  “That’s the calculus,” Walraven said. “But if I’m DeVonte, I’m more afraid of my uncles than a jury.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Half the 1994 graduating class of Benjamin E. Mays High School showed up to the prayer vigil at Elizabeth Baptist. This was Chip’s church “home,” even if he rarely found his way into its pews. His college roommates from Morehouse, Scooter Taylor and Kevin Harvey, sat next to Althea, Chip’s live-in girlfriend, who was weeping and clenching a small white Bible. Despite conflicting reports of his death, Chip was still on life support at Grady Memorial Hospital. No doubt, somebody somewhere was writing his obituary.

  As the mayor entered, walked down the aisle, and ascended the stairs to the platform, the sanctuary fell into a hush. Four FBI agents stationed themselves on opposite sides of the altar, and four more stood near the rear entrance. There were others outside, sweeping the parking lot, she knew. As she scanned the faces in the sanctuary, she could not shake the feeling that she was being watched.

  She’d come to this pulpit before, both in gladness and in mourning, as both a candidate and as mayor. She started by formally thanking the pastor for opening the doors on such late notice and the ushers for standing duty on a Saturday night. She extended her gratitude to the investigators and the medical team, and that drew a hearty amen.

  Victoria surveyed the mass of people before her. Some had been present the evening before, awaiting the thundering campaign speech that never came. Others were long-missed friends from the old neighborhood, her Spelman sisters, rows of Morehouse men, colleagues from the state legislature, her mayoral staff, and still other people she saw too little of. There were political allies and onetime foes alike pressed in among the fold. News cameras lined the upper balcony. CNN carried the service live.

  Her husband, Marsh, sat off to the right, in the first pew on the lower level, his arms stretched out and embracing Mahalia and Maya on his left and right. He’d braided their hair himself, Victoria could tell. The crooked partings and messy plaits were visible even from a distance. On any other day, she would have been embarrassed and chided her husband for bringing the girls out in public like that. But Marsh was filling in the gaps, and tonight she was grateful.

  She grinned painfully at Althea and her nephew, Chippy, with whom she had rarely visited. She didn’t even know what kind of ice cream he liked or the name of the stuffed bear he was holding on to. She knew he was four years old, but couldn’t recall his actual birth date if her very life depended on it. That would change after tonight, she swore to herself. Like Victoria, Chippy shared his grandmother’s light, caramel-brown skin. Chippy had his father’s wide, nickel-sized eyes; full lips; and long, lanky body and was likewise prone to bursts of excitement.

  “Auntie Vee!” he called out. “Mama, Mama! That’s Auntie Vee!”

  Althea quickly shushed him and pulled the slender boy onto her lap. Victoria bowed her head in silent prayer, the audience following suit.

  “Amen,” she said after a few moments.

  When she opened her eyes, she spotted Hampton Bridges on the far right end of the balcony. His presence was no surprise. Even though she abhorred him, Victoria was growing accustomed to Hampton’s being among the press corps again.

  “The doctors say it doesn’t look good,” she said solemnly. “They say he is lucky to be alive, even for this long. They asked me what kind of man he is. Was he the type to give up and give in? They wanted to know what kind of will he has. They said his survival depends on that. I said: ‘He’s a Dobbs.’”

  The church roared. Victoria spotted Riley Lester seated in the third row and swallowed her breath. Their eyes met. She did not flinch. That he had come to this place, knowing that his own nephew would almost certainly be charged in connection with the bombing, was obscene. Victoria nodded in Riley’s direction. If he had come with a message, and it seemed clear that he had, she sent one in return. And so, it began.

  “My brother came into this world fighting, and he won’t leave here without one—”

  The church thundered again with rolling applause. Victoria waited for a cool spot and continued on.

  “So, then, I stand here tonight not only with a heart of sadness for his current condition, but also in a gladness that only hope can bring. I rejoice in the miracle yet to unfold. We are a believing family. Ours is a radical love.

  “Those of us who know Chip best also know how much he loves this town. You are his ATL, the city that gave birth to him, and the city that raised and educated him. You lifted him up when he was right and busted his backside when he was wrong. I know something about that too, amen,” she said with a grin and a small laugh.

  “Our mother is with him now, holding his hand, praying for him as he wanders through the valley. His Atlanta, and ours, is a city of many hills—Peachtree Street Hills, Garden Hills, Summerhill, Druid Hills, Castleberry, Brookwood…,” she said. “But for every hill there exists two valleys.”

  “Amen!” somebody shouted.

  “Storms will come. Tough winds will surely blow. Though even as the earth shakes, together as a people, as a city, as one family, we will stand resilient in the face of the evildoers,” she said, glancing at Riley. “We will not shirk nor shrink nor wither on the vine. We will not turn back.”

  “Amen!” came another voice from the pews. “Go ’head, sister!”

  “We will not run and hide away in our houses or shutter our storefronts. We will not stop congregating in hotels and church houses. We will not stop living and loving. We will not give you this city!” she bellowed, jamming her finger in the air.

  In a single breath, she said, “To the bomb planters, to the snipers mounting rooftops, to anyone who attempts to terrorize, murder, and maim, to rain down evil across this land, I say this: Like a tree planted at the water’s edge, we are one people and we shall not be moved!”

  They were on their feet now. Marsh pumped his fists, beaming with pride.
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br />   “I am married to an extraordinary man and the mother of two girls that I could not live a single day without,” she went on.

  Victoria locked eyes with her husband. Marsh nodded his head as if to say, “Tell them.”

  She paused then, glanced down at the empty lectern, and gathered herself.

  “God of our weary years. God of our silent tears,” she uttered.

  Victoria looked out over the sea of people, who were still standing, waiting for the word they knew was coming.

  “I am mayor of this great city, born and bred not more than a mile from this church house, and with God’s blessing, I will one day soon walk the halls of Congress in your name.”

  Hampton sat straight up in the pew. The mayor was on fire now, like she was preaching a sermon. Riley stood, clapped politely, and grinned.

  “I will carry your water to the highest hill in the land and back again! What was meant for evil, the Lord above meant for good!”

  “Hallelujah!” a man called out from the back.

  “Praise be to God!” came a woman’s voice.

  “Selah!” shouted another.

  The rear double doors parted, and Sal Pelosi appeared, holding it open as Victoria’s mother stepped into the sanctuary. She paused, stood breast out and dignified yet solemn. It was the same look Victoria remembered from the day they buried her father.

  Rosetta began to sing.

  Why should I feel discouraged?

  Why should the shadows come?

  Why should my heart feel lonely

  And long for heaven and home?

  Her impassioned voice grew in strength as she made her way toward the pulpit.

  When Jesus is my portion,

  A constant friend is He.